


What She Wants

by kaiz



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: D/s, F/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-02-02
Updated: 2003-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-09 18:24:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/90238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaiz/pseuds/kaiz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione does Severus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What She Wants

**Author's Note:**

  * For [darkrosetiger (darkrose)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkrose/gifts).



There are things of yours that she wants.

Sometimes she wants them all at once, prix fixe. Other times, like tonight, she prefers to savor them slowly, one at a time, a la carte.

Most often, she wants your Potions and Dark Arts expertise. Those times, you both shout and debate over dusty books and scrolls and bubbling caldrons in her office or in the basement laboratory of her Ministry safe-house. Other times, she wants what any wife might want of a long-distance spouse: affection, conversation, and emotionally satisfying love-making, of course.

Occasionally, however, as her research progress and your teaching timetable permit, she hungers after more...exotic fare.

Tonight, for example.

Rather than incantations or spells or potions, instead of pretty words or soft, romantic lighting, this evening's eclectic menu features your mouth, your cock, and your arse.

Your hands are not needed and so they are tied behind your back. Your sight is extraneous too; she knotted a black silk scarf over your eyes immediately upon your arrival. Your clothes are most definitely unnecessary and were spell-stripped from your body moments after you crossed the threshold. But this is nothing out of the ordinary: they usually are.

"You're late," she said, then grabbed a handful of your robes and yanked you through the door.

You were promptly stripped, blindfolded and bound in silk, taken by the arm and led across the room to her bed. On the way, you stubbed your toe on some enormous tome left lying about and you stepped on something soft that yowled then swiped at your ankle.

Damn cat!

"Get out of here Crookshanks," she said. "I love you to bits, but one pet in my bedroom tonight is more than enough."

Your stomach clenched at her words and your cock hardened instantly. She just laughed, roughly took you 'in hand', so to speak, and continued towards the bed.

"That's attached," you protested, stumbling after her, only to bark your shins against the bed frame a few seconds later. "Damn it, Hermione!"

"Oops," she said, though she didn't sound very repentant. You could feel the bed dip as she sat on the edge. "I'll make it up to you. Promise."

"You'd better," you'd almost said, but then she had jerked you forward, onto your knees, between her legs and your protest was smothered, quite deliciously so.

And so, now you are quite thoroughly distracted from the pain in your toe, your shins, and your ankle by her heat and her wetness and her sighs. By her hands twisted in your hair and the drumming of her heels against your back. By the motion of your tongue along her succulent folds, by her lush moans when you fold your tongue lengthwise and dip inside, first with the tip and then deeper with the entire length. By her sinful taste. By the rhythmic flick of the end of your nose against that tiny, fascinating little nub that magnifies her cries far out of proportion to its size.

Too bad that your hands are tied.

Otherwise, you might take two long fingers and slide them in and up, pressing that odd little spot inside her, the place that is always good for a shriek or two and a gush of wetness on your hand or tongue. Or you might, instead, wank yourself off concurrently, since the friction of the bedcovers against your prick is almost, but not quite, sufficient to the task.

But your hands are not what she wants tonight and so you must make do: imagining her, clothed solely in her lust, long legs spread wide, head thrown back, her tawny hair tangled and wild. Oh yes!

But just as her cries, and your excitement, approaches the pinnacle, she jerks on your hair hard enough to hurt. "Don't you dare come, Severus Snape!" she hisses. "I'm saving _that_ just for me."

Dratted woman!

But your parents taught you manners, shocking though that may be to believe, so you yield to her wishes. You ruthlessly defer your own pleasure (think of _frog guts, bubotuber pus, Dumbledore naked_) as you urge her towards climax.

Your knees ache, her heel digs unpleasantly into your right kidney, and you are convinced that she's torn a handful of hair out by the roots, but quite frankly, so what? What with her sudden shout, the sudden gush of salty-wet across your tongue, the quiver of her inner thighs against your flushed cheeks, not to mention the delicious coil of heat now writhing in your belly and balls, complaining about a hank of hair lost seems rather petty.

"Mmm, mm...well done, Professor," she says with a throaty, satiated purr.

You have a brief smug moment to catch your breath, to wipe your face on the coverlet, before she's got her hand in your hair again and is jerking you up off your knees and face down onto the bed.

Directly onto a pile of books, loose papers, and freshly sharpened quills, as it so happens.

"Bloody hell!" you yelp. "My hair is attached too, by the by. And for the ten thousandth time, will you _please_ remember to clear off the damn bed before we get down to it?"

She giggles. As per usual. Your glare and sarcasm have long since ceased to have an effect. "Oh, quit being such a baby," she says. "And scooch up."

So you wriggle your way blindly across the bed, on your chest, without the use of your hands, to the accompaniment of your wife's delighted laughter at your undignified progress. She slaps your arse hard to urge you along. You pause, interested despite yourself--

"Move along now, Professor. Plenty of time for that later," she says with a wealth of promise.

\--and, with butterflies in your belly, cock rubbing pleasantly against the coverlet, you resume your journey, finally locating the center of the bed, amid the academic detritus and debris.

One spell-word later and she has freed your hands. Two more and she has deftly flipped you to your back then bound you again, spread-eagled, to the four corners of the bed. The flurry of activity, a slap on your flank, and her firm hand tugging--once, twice--on your prick leaves you shivering with anticipation.

"Am I to know what is next on the agenda, Miss Granger?" you ask, quite unsteadily.

Her weight settles over you, something scratchy against your thighs first, then damp warmth pressing down on your cock. "I suppose yes," she says, then strips the blindfold away from your eyes.

Your imagination is excellent, but the images you conjured behind closed eyes simply cannot compare to the overwhelming reality of _her_:

She is magnificent, sitting astride you. Her hair is loose and wild. Her lips are curved in a wicked, promising grin. Her breasts are bared, jiggling slightly with each deep breath, nipples rosy and taut. Her creamy skin gleams with sweat. She is wearing white socks, polished black shoes, and a short pleated skirt, in Campbell plaid, riding low on her slim hips. The garment doesn't quite conceal the black leather straps and buckles of the harness you realize she's wearing beneath it.

Suddenly you can't quite seem to catch your breath.

In an entirely fair universe, you would be dead, you would be rotting in Azkaban, you would be unemployed, friendless, impoverished, begging for scraps or whoring your magical talents in Knockturn alley.

Fortunately for you, the universe isn't the least bit fair, although it is undeniably perverse. And thus, somehow, your reward for being an all-around amoral prick in your young adult years is _this:_

This life.

This woman.

This serious and talented scholar. This well mannered young woman and dutiful spouse. Who is, just beneath the polished veneer of respectability, a kinky little vixen who would gleefully suspend you from the dining room chandelier and fist you senseless if given half a chance.

Thank Merlin for that!

"Pay attention, dear," she says, tweaking each of your nipples in turn. "Wool gather on your own time. You're here to service me. Or have you forgotten?"

You most certainly have _not_ forgotten and a bone deep thrill surges through your body. She squeezes her thighs against your sides hard enough to make your ribs creak.

"So. You wanted me to recap the agenda." She takes hold of your cock in her fist. "Well, first, I'm going to stiffen you up a bit."

As if you weren't already. But nonetheless, four fast strokes later and your head falls back on the pillow, your mouth drops open stupidly; you moan.

"Next, I'll rise up, just like this..." she kneels up and lifts her skirt, giving you a tantalizing flash of leather and wet skin, "then finally, I'll settle down, just like this..."

She does, settles down slowly, with a sly grin and an even more wicked shimmy with her hips and it's hot and tight and it's gripping you hard, like a meaty, intimate fist milking the come right out of your prick: it's like no other sensation you could possibly name.

"That'll do, don't you think, Professor?" she says with a grin, then she dips her hand beneath her skirt--no doubt fondling her clit--she tosses her head, rocks forward, and proceeds to ride you.

Hard.

"Give me a rhythm I can work with, here, Severus!"

Frustrated, you flex upwards with your shoulders and toes as much as your magical bonds will allow. "Untie me, then, so I have some sodding leverage!"

"Ha. You just can't stand a woman in charge, can you?"

You would beg to differ, given that she's amply proven for the past two years (not to mention the last twenty minutes) that the practice of woman-on-top has quite a bit of merit, but then she does something internally--squeezes down hard--and your balls ignite, your skin catches fire, and your eyes roll back in your head. Whatever retort you had in mind dribbles out of your mouth in brainless single syllable utterances that sound embarrassingly like: "Uh, uh, uh!"

"Well," she says in a maddeningly conversational tone. "If I'd known all it took to shut you up was a _squeeze_ and a _roll_ and a bit of _side to side_..."

And if you were on the cusp of orgasm before, you are now clinging to the precipice with two cramping fingers and a thumb.

"...I would have tried this before!"

She rocks against you hard, squeezes down, and after a moment, you find a deep, wet, mutually pleasing rhythm. In a rare flash of good sense, you forebear to mention that she _has_ silenced you thus, countless times before. After all, you want to ensure that it happens again. And again.

Ad infinitum.

For a long while, the bedroom is filled with your pants and groans, and hers, several octaves higher than your own. Up, down, and sideways. You've got a cramp in your shoulder and the sweat stings your eyes and _that familiar feeling_ is bubbling up from your balls and the soles of your feet. It snakes its heated way through your belly towards the top of your head, where it is certain to blow your skull apart, when quite suddenly, you're down to a single finger and a thumb nail on that cliffside. At which point you wonder why the hell you're holding on at all: the entire point of this fleshly, sweaty, mind altering exercise is to _let go!_

So you do. As does she.

Your prick and your limbs disintegrate in a flash of light. Her magic sears through and mingles with yours, blue-white and blinding. You scream twice before the darkness finally takes you.

As if from a great distance, you next hear: "Don't go to sleep, Severus. I'm not finished with you yet!"

Somehow, you find the energy to groan, whether in consternation or relief is uncertain given your exhausted, shagged out state. Still, it won't do to keep Hermione waiting, definitely not when she's in this mood.

The bindings have been released and you sit up slowly, rubbing your wrists and ankles; both the bed and the room are empty.

"Se-ver-us!"

Her voice. From the direction of the sitting room. You pause to savor a delicious internal tremor.

"Quit laying about, you lazy git. I want you in here in ten seconds, Snape! Ten...nine...eight..."

In an instant, you have shrugged off your post-coital fog, rolled across the bed--with wanton, atypical disregard for crushed papers and books--and are on your feet heading towards the sitting room.

On the way, it occurs to you that a forty-something, fully trained and highly skilled wizard ought to have a bit more self-respect than to say, "How high, dear?" whenever his wife--no matter how fetching she is--says, "Jump."

"...Six...five..."

But then your semi-hard, eternally hopeful prick reminds you that dignity is all well and good, but scintillating orgasms are a damn sight better, so you hasten your step.

"...Four...three...It's about damn time."

When you arrive in the salon, she is still shirtless, dressed in her skirt, knee socks and black t-strap schoolgirl shoes and is standing in front of a high backed chair. Her mouth is a firm, disproving line and she slaps a long wooden ruler, once, twice, against her palm. Her breasts jiggle deliciously with each _smack._

"I am very disappointed in you, Mr. Snape," she says, in an uncanny cross between your mother and Minerva McGonagall, which really shouldn't get you hard but damned if your knees don't go weak and your cock doesn't stand up and take immediate notice. "Do you have any idea what you've done to merit punishment?" She continues.

Hm. You've committed murder by proxy, rape by proxy, and torture by proxy, and allowed a megalomaniac to brand you with a garish tattoo. However, you suspect that this is not what she has in mind. "I was, um, late?" you venture, unsurprised to hear your voice quiver. She really _is_ quite convincing when she embraces a role.

"You were late," she agrees, circling round you, looking you up and down, as the ruler does a slow _tap, tap_ on her palm. "What else?"

You draw a complete blank. "Uh?"

"I'll give you a hint," she says, then smacks you on the arse with the ruler.

"Ouch!" And, oh. _Oh._

As if.

Apparation is difficult enough without trying it whilst distracted by a vibrating butt-plug. You haven't splinched yourself since you were fourteen and you're not about to start now. Especially not when you'd be required to file a report with the Ministry Department of Transportation: _And what was the cause of the distraction, Professor Snape? Six inches of molded silicone shoved up my arse, Constable._ Not a chance.

"I can see that you don't take these transgressions very seriously, Mr. Snape. I don't believe that taking points off will quite do the trick. Do you?"

A rhetorical question if you've ever heard one. You dutifully reply, "No, ma'am."

"Very good then," she says. She strides purposefully to the chair and sits down patting her lap with the ruler. "Assume the position."

You blink stupidly for a moment, then resist the out-of-character urge to grin. Damned if she isn't going to go all the way with this tonight!

It never ceases to amaze you just how far you are each willing to go to accommodate one another's little private...quirks. Such as her odd penchant for, amongst other things, wearing men's undergarments (the white y-fronts are admittedly quite fetching when worn with knee socks and high heels) and for pissing on your face from time to time; not to mention your own fondness for being spanked like a naughty schoolboy and then buggered soundly over the back of the sitting room sofa.

Married life is a strange and wondrous thing!

"I said _assume the position, Mr. Snape._" She is waiting, arms crossed, thin lipped, for your compliance.

So you oblige. With alacrity.

It's a bit awkward lying over her lap, given that you're rather gangly and she's really quite small but after a bit of squirming, you manage to make do. It's also more than a tad embarrassing--humiliating even--to be exposed, laid out this way, but though flobber worms have taken up residence in your stomach, your prick doesn't especially seem to mind.

"Given your brazen unrepentance, I suspect that the usual set of twenty strokes won't be quite enough tonight," she says briskly. "Let us see if forty-six--your age, coincidentally--shall be sufficient."

And without further ado, she begins.

The first stoke of the ruler smacks loudly across your bare arse. Though it doesn't truly hurt, you yelp involuntarily: _One._

"You've been a very naughty boy, Severus."

No argument there, although admittedly, it's been rare that the rewards for getting 'caught' have been quite so...envigorating.

With the next several strokes, she increases both force and strike-rate: the fifth, the sixth, and seventh are far more...significant sensations than the first. By the fifteenth, a swarm of fire ants is feasting on your exposed, abused skin and by the twentieth, the pain is far from a Cruciatus, but it is a continuous stinging wave, rising steadily until, at twenty-one it crests and _something_ suddenly breaks loose in your chest and throat; your eyes begin to burn and your breath comes in jagged gasps.

"Whatever am I going to do with you?"

If you suggested: "More of the same," might she possibly agree?

You reflexively cringe away from the next furious strikes, but she holds you immobile and her right arm is relentless. Her exhalations grow harsh and you can feel the flex of muscle and bone as she throws the weight of her body into accelerating the ruler up, then down _hard_ over your quivering ass and thighs.

_Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine._

"Sometimes I think I could swat you until my arm falls off and it wouldn't do a bit of good."

Au contraire: your tongue is stuck to the roof of your mouth and the ruler against your arse is doing quite a bit of..._something,_ if not actual good.

She clenches your fully erect prick between her knees. The wool of the skirt scratches your chest and the front of your thighs. Your hands clench the legs of the chair, your hair clings to the sweat and...tears? on your face.

_Thirty-four, thirty-five, thirty-six._

"Then again, I suppose I owe it to the world to do my part in curbing your persistent insolence."

Your inner imp of sarcasm gasps, then stutters into silence on _thirty-seven_ and you are left alone in your skull and your burning, quivering skin.

"Ten more, Severus," she says, breathless from exertion, and unbidden, your body rises to meet each strike. Nearly there: you're flying, you want it to stop, you never want it to end.

_Thirty-nine, forty, forty-one._

Your nose is clogged so you must breathe through your mouth. Every skin cell is on fire, each strike of the ruler cracks across your arse, hums along spine and spreads out over every square inch of skin, bathing your nerve-endings in fire and loosening your every joint and limb.

"Count the last five with me," she says, and you try, struggling with numb lips to shape the syllables: _forty-two, forty-three..._ But your verbal skills have long since evaporated and it is all you can do to ride along with the flames and struggle to breathe.

At the stroke of forty-four, you lose the ability for even that: time dilates, elongates, halts. Your visions dissolves into sparks and forty-five and forty-six pass you by, unheard.

You come to, after an unknown passage of time, bent over the back of the couch with her greased finger up your arse.

Three cheers for Mobilicorpus!

She has considerately tied back your hair and wiped the tears and snot from your face, but once again, she's bound your wrists behind your back; so much for leverage or control. Your knees are weak and shaking, sweat drips into your eyes, and one of your few functioning brain cells wonders if she plans to fuck you to death.

The other concludes that such an exit might be quite the opposite of horrid.

"If you'd prepared yourself properly, Severus, I wouldn't have to do this now," she says, shoving two fingers deep and crooking them _just so._

Were you more coherent, you might ask her why she considers this delicious stroking, languid thrust and opening, the creak of leather harness, the scratch of her skirt against the sore skin of your arse a 'bad thing.' As it is, the most you can summon is a gasp when she tilts your hips, parts your cheeks, and slides in deep with her borrowed cock.

Your remaining wits take flight with her first thrust. They scatter to the four winds on the second and from that moment forward, you surrender to her fully: you embrace the unruly tempest she's made of your senses.

Unlike you, she has no difficulty finding a workable rhythm that drives you up to your tiptoes and rips a series of hoarse shouts from your throat. "Come for me, now!" she shouts and tugs on your cock with a slippery hand.

In an instant, order, logic, and sarcasm abandon you and you ignite and burn and--when she shifts slightly and finds the perfect angle--ultimately _burn to ash_ in the crucible of passion she has roused.

###

Much later, after she has gathered up your pitiful handful of ashes and restored you to yourself, you and she share a bath.

You rest quietly, freshly washed and relaxed, in her arms, your head pillowed on her breasts. The room is in shadow, lit only by a few stuttering candles on the countertop; rising steam from the bath water is fragrant with herbs. It seems that she placed a bit of romance on the agenda after all.

"I must have been doing something right," she whispers past your ear. "You barely said a word there at the end."

Ofttimes, words are overrated. So instead, you turn in her arms and answer her with kisses. Sweet and soft, carefully parting her lips with your tongue, stroking lightly over hers, tasting the warmth inside.

She sighs and melts against you immediately; your heart feels full enough to burst.

Your fingers slide over her damp shoulders, down her arms, to her hands, which you gather in yours and raise to your lips. You kiss your way across each slender finger, from left to right, stopping only when you reach the fourth finger of her left hand.

When Hermione opens her eyes, you could swear that the room brightens when she smiles.

She is your wife. It is inexplicable, yet somehow true.

Were you given to flights of fancy, you might mistake the ring for evidence of a claim. You might assume that it somehow grants special liberties to you, above all others.

Fortunately you are a pragmatist. You recognize the ring for what it is: a mutual promise that the unexpected magic that you share--the delight of intellectual inquiry, the humor, the sweat and spunk and screams of passion: _whatever it is she wants_\--will never go.

**Author's Note:**

> Smut, pure and simple. Happy birthday, Darkrose!


End file.
